#i forgot to crosspost this one

[luthordamnvers]

it's called foreplay, darling, look it up

X

[nilovalentine]

Then and Now

[fluxblush]

hmm wonder what song is the best overstim anthem??🎵🔌🔞

[ryuusea]

💐 / sherliam, flower language

when married to a guy whose mind palace only stores flowers with poison/medicinal value

I recently got a book, “Floriography: An Illustrated Guide to Victorian Language of Flowers” and it was fun applying it here! I imagine Liam knows Sherly doesn’t really bother to remember flower language, so incorporates Sherly’s knowledge of poisons/medicinal herbs for the fun of it!

[hybridshadowz]

The ultimate singer is here and ready to perform~!✨🎤

Best outfit for him, hands down!! Don't argue with me on this!!! This lil guy was made for the Newark Sonic Symphony (WHICH WAS ABSOUTELY AMAZING!!! AAAAAAAA) Sadly I didn't get to give out much because I was distracted a lot and far too shy. But!! I have a lot of leftovers, so I'll try again for the Sonic Movie 3 release day!

[thetomorrowshow]

i can't remember (when you weren't there)

trust au sequel story - the seablings compare notes

yep there is a whole compilation of side stories that will be posted irregularly! there's already two on ao3 sooooo yeah have fun

~

“Yimecht! Stop swimming so far out!”

He laughs delightedly, sticks his tongue out at his sister behind. “You can’t catch me!”

“Yimecht!”

He keeps swimming, flicking his tail faster and faster, torpedoing through the water. Bubbles stream past his face, his ear fins are flat against the sides of his head, he loves going fast—

Something big barrels into him, catching him in its arms, rolling them to the side together.

Yimecht gasps out another laugh, wriggles out of his sister’s arms. “Again! Let’s do it again!”

“No,” Szise says firmly, and she seems grumpy. “Get in the pouch.”

That’s not fair! She may be in charge, but she’s mean. “I don’t want in the pouch,” he argues, crossing his arms. “I’m too big for it. It’s stupid.”

“I’ll make a bigger one when we have time,” she tells him. “It’s not safe for you to be out. Get in the pouch.”

“Why? Why isn’t it safe?”

Szise sighs. “There are dangerous people who want to hurt you. You have to stay hidden until your scales are hard, okay?”

Yimecht opens his eyes, slowly, to see a bedroom.

His bedroom.

Jimmy closes his eyes again, tries to grab on to the last vestiges of that strange, misty, familiar dream.

It slips away as he tries, smoke vanishing in his fingers.

Jimmy . . . Jimmy doesn’t dream. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a dream. Lizzie doesn’t dream, either, neither of them dream and it doesn’t make sense for him to just . . . dream something.

He doesn’t dream. He just doesn’t.

It had been about Lizzie, though.

Jimmy opens his eyes a second time, glances at the worn, ancient little book on his bedside table.

He needs to talk to her.

-

They don’t get the opportunity to talk until two days later.

The Codlands have been entirely freed, and they’ve already started rebuilding. Many refugees who had fled to other lands are returning, and Jimmy’s own little camp of rebels has made it back to their individual homes. He has plans to personally thank each and every one of them, after the dust settles a bit.

He’s supposed to go see Scott tomorrow—they’ve been apart for far too long already, two weeks without seeing one another (though they message each other whenever there’s a free moment) feels like years, but until then, he’s meant to be arranging all the tasks that need to be completed this weekend and delegating them to the various members of his newly-reformed small council.

Which, of course, is a perfect time to talk to Lizzie. Jimmy has been positively itching to just sit down and talk to her for weeks now, ever since he came into the possession of this diary that clearly belonged to her.

Not to mention, she’s a giant sea monster now.

That feels like something they maybe ought to discuss more than just in passing.

They have a meeting place that’s always been theirs, a little dock at the edge of the capital, usually empty due to its rundown state, the wood old and rotting, the hand-rope almost entirely frayed.

Jimmy arrives right on time, slipping his boots off and setting them on the dock beside him, then tugging up the cuffs of his trousers a little bit to be able to dip his feet fully in the water.

Jimmy’s clothes are all fine to get in the water, though some are more suited for it than others. His tighter trousers he usually leaves on, stretchy and aerodynamic, made for swimming. He doesn’t wear those too terribly often, though, as many other cultures find them inappropriate (and he doesn’t think they have any room to talk, he’s seen the leggings that royal Mythlanders prance around in—but he supposes it’s just part and parcel of being Cod), preferring instead to wear billowy trousers or skirts.

The pair he’s wearing now are a patterned brown-green, loose-fitting, bunched at the ankles with leather cords. They’re wrapped around his waist and tied there; just one pull of the tie securing it and they’d fall, leaving him in his knee-length, skin-tight shorts, ready to leap into the water. He loves their convenience and comfort, and some of his pairs (including these) fit with the betrothal clothing standards (which is, coincidentally, something that they’ll be discussing this weekend).

All that to say, he really doesn’t care too much about getting his boots wet, because half the time he jumps into the water without taking off anything (despite Cod clothing being designed for that very purpose), but he does so now so that he can sit for a moment and relish in the feeling of the water between his toes.

He’s considering slipping off his trousers and sliding into the water (Jimmy only ever half-undresses for swimming—if he’s wearing tight trousers, he’ll take off his shirt, but he feels oddly exposed if he ends up with both off) when Lizzie pops up out of the water beside the dock, huge and a little terrifying, the water rocking against him in actual waves at her entrance.

His sister is a sea monster.

Or, more accurately, a sea monster is his sister.

The pink scales that he’s always known are still there in the same patterns on her cheeks and jaw and around her eyes, but her pale skin is gone, replaced by smooth blue scales. Her face isn’t quite the same, a bit sharper and somehow more . . . fitting, like this is how it’s meant to frame her cheekbones, and her more humanoid face had been just barely the wrong shape or size. She’s a good twelve feet tall, probably standing on the ocean floor yet still able to stand head and shoulders above the surface.

Changed as she is, she is his sister, and nothing’s truly different about the grin that she gives him, soft and loving and maybe a little bit vicious.

“Hey, Lizzie,” he says fondly, and Lizzie clicks her tongue in a dolphin greeting—and her tongue is way longer than it used to be, whoa.

“How is everyone settling back in?” she asks, voice a little echo-y in a way it never was before.

Jimmy shrugs. “As well as anyone would expect, I guess,” he says. “It’s hard, but we’re making it work.” He hadn’t been planning on doing any swimming right now, but with Lizzie shaking water droplets everywhere, he figures he might as well. He pulls free the tie of his trousers and slips into the water, stretching out his arms and kicking his legs, the water cool and inviting against his skin and scales.

The effects of living without the ocean (or any meaningful body of water, really) for so much time hadn’t gone unnoticed. The first moment that he had dipped into the ocean proper—two weeks ago, when he and Lizzie had swum out to free the Codlands—it felt like some dying part of him was suddenly revived, despite not really being aware that it was dying in the first place.

Like part of his soul, slowly drifting further away, was bound back to him.

And he wonders, now, if leaving the ocean in the first place played any part in separating him from his memories.

No use in small talk. He might as well cut to the chase.

“So I’ve got this book,” he says, just as Lizzie says, “Scott gave me this book.”

Jimmy pauses, waits for Lizzie to insist he can talk first, but Lizzie just keeps on talking.

“It’s a history book of the ocean, from . . . hundreds of years ago, I think?” she says, pulling a book out from a very large satchel (which still looks too-small on her). “It’s absolutely ancient. It talks about the forming of the world, and the development of the seas, and this sea . . . dragon? The word doesn’t quite make sense—this sea monster that used to rule the ocean. Apparently she died, and there just wasn’t a ruler for a long time? I don’t know, I skipped most of that part. Boring politics and all that. And then it talks about her two children hatching or something, and the splitting off of the salmon, and . . . that’s where it ends.”

Jimmy frowns. He isn’t quite sure when the salmon split off, but it was long enough ago that none of his people were alive when it happened. Most scholars agree that it was probably several hundred years in the past; the Codlands have been pitted against the salmon for as long as can be remembered. “When did you say it was written?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, the movement sending a small wave to rock into Jimmy. “There’s something weird, though—I don’t speak the language it’s written in. But—”

“You were kind of able to read it anyway?” guesses Jimmy, his stomach flipping.

Lizzie nods, giving him a strange look. “Exactly. If I think too hard about reading it, I stop being able to. But I think it’s some old form of Oceanic. Have you seen it before?”

She hands the book to Jimmy, one hand large enough to cover both of Jimmy’s.

Sure enough, flipping open to the third page, it’s written in those strange old letters that itch in the back of Jimmy’s brain, tall and blue and washed-out. This book is far more neat than the one he has, the handwriting strict and uniform, the lines straight and not trailing down the page.

If he carefully doesn’t focus, he can tell that it’s saying something about a god.

This one, he knows, wasn’t written by Lizzie.

But he can suddenly hear it, as if told by his sister.

“Once upon a time, mama met our father, who was a god. Then she could die happy, because her babies would live forever.”

He blinks, glances up to see Lizzie waiting, sharp, black nails tapping against her arm. “Sorry, what was your question?”

“Have you seen these letters before?”

Slowly, almost trance-like, Jimmy reaches for his book, which he’d left on the dock, tucked into the large pocket of his trousers.

“Scott had this, he said he meant to give it to you,” he says. “It’s—it looks like . . . well, see for yourself.”

Lizzie takes the book from him—this one, smaller than the other, appears almost tiny in her hands—and carefully opens it, pinched between her fingers.

And soon enough, brow furrowed as she studies it, Lizzie comes to the same conclusion that Jimmy had.

“I wrote this,” she says, seeming almost dumbstruck. “I—this is my handwriting. This is about us. I wrote this. I don’t remember writing this.”

“I think it’s from Before.”

Lizzie doesn’t respond, eyes flying across the pages. “This is about you!” she gasps, pointing. “It says you were a small, damaged egg.”

“Embellishments to make the story more dramatic,” Jimmy waves off. He does remember seeing that part and stoutly ignoring it.

Lizzie pauses to give him a look. “If I wrote this, I wouldn’t lie. Besides, you look like the type to be small and damaged.”

She returns to her reading as Jimmy sputters a couple of protests. There’s no proof that he was ever an egg, actually! Let alone a small and damaged one!

After several minutes, she looks up again, brow creased. “Jimmy,” she says slowly.

“Yimecht!” his sister calls, laughing.

“How old are we?”

“Well, people usually tell me I look about twenty-four,” Jimmy says, checking the backs of his hands for wrinkles. They’re as unwrinkled as they’ve always been. “So maybe somewhere around there?”

“Yes, but you’ve looked twenty-four for the past decade,” says Lizzie. “And for . . . what, thirty years? For thirty-odd years, people have been telling me I look twenty-six. Shouldn’t I be fifty-something? At least?”

“You don’t really look twenty-six anymore,” Jimmy comments. “You look like a sea monster.”

“A young sea monster.”

“Still a sea monster.”

“My point is,” Lizzie presses, “the history book says that the two eggs of this ancient sea-dragon-monster-thing hatched, and ruled the ocean together. And this other book says that you and I were—the rulers, I guess. When I wrote this, we ruled the sea. But according to this book, if we were those two eggs, that would have been centuries ago at least. Far too long ago. How . . . how old are we?”

“Then she could die happy, because her babies would live forever.”

“Wow. We’re gonna live forever?”

“We’re gonna live forever,” Jimmy says now, echoing the words of his fading memory. “That’s . . . I think you told me that. A long, long time ago.”

It’s his sister’s voice in the memory, even if the words aren’t familiar. He would recognize her anywhere (and he always has, when they first crossed paths nearly a decade ago he heard her voice and knew instantly that she was his sister, despite knowing nothing else).

The idea—living forever—sends a little thrill through Jimmy’s scales. He’s never going to die. He never has to grow old.

That sounds awesome.

Lizzie, however, seems less than excited by the prospect. “I think so,” she says quietly. “That feels right.”

She looks down at her hands, her claw-like nails. “Joel’s having my wedding ring remade,” she says after a moment. “Since the change is looking kind of permanent.”

“That’s nice of him.” Jimmy hadn’t even realized, but Lizzie’s still wearing the ring, on a thin chain around her neck.

Hopefully he doesn't turn big right after getting married to Scott. That would be a huge ring.

“Promise me,” Lizzie says suddenly. “Promise me that we’ll always be here for each other.”

Why wouldn’t they be? They’re going to live forever, of course they’ll always support each other. She’s his sister, even when his memory was a blank hole he knew her, and Jimmy can’t even imagine not being by her side.

“Yeah,” he says, confused as to why she would even ask. “Of course.”

“Jimmy, I mean it,” she says. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” he says. “Why would I leave you?” The look she gives him is almost mournful, markedly different from how it might have looked in a face not entirely scaley.

“Things will change over time,” she says vaguely. “You’ll feel differently then.”

He doesn’t think he will. He would never abandon his blood, no matter what happens.

And, unsatisfying and unfinished, their conversation ends there. Something has put Lizzie in a somber mood, so Jimmy takes the journal back, vowing to translate it when he has time so they can properly read it. Lizzie takes the history book with a promise to do the same.

And Jimmy forgets, over the next couple of days, Lizzie’s concern. Too caught up in the excitement of living forever, he doesn’t imagine there could ever be real consequences—none that matter when compared to immortality. And then, even that is mostly put from his mind, what with discussions of betrothals and long meetings of holding hands with Scott under the table.

But he does translate the journal, and traces his fingers across hundreds of years of protection and love.

He doesn’t remember it as being his—

“Yimecht! Stop swimming so far out!”

—but his name is there, dozens of times.

Smallbelovedfoundbrother.

Yimecht.

He thinks he likes it.

[megoomy]

tales of femslash week winter, day one “cinderella”

[foxceus]

remember to take your seeing-eye-bird with you, kalmia!!!!

[bibliotheksbewohnerin]

this is just to say that if you like the madness that is Rhys Darby and haven’t watched the Alone Rangers, you’re missing out <3

[greyias]

writing patterns tag game

tagged by @commander-krios -- thank you for the tag!

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

Tagging: @keldae, @queen-scribbles, @brietopia, @vihola and @elveny

Arachnophillia Anonymous (f!tav/Gale)

The walls of the tent seemed to loom around him.

2. playful teasing/blossoming romance prompt (f!tav/Gale)

Gale woke with a crick in his neck, an ache in his back, and an all-too familiar gnawing deep within his chest.

3. the smell of burning wood (f!tav/Gale)

The sun had started its descent in the sky by the time they’d found a suitable site for a camp and scrounged enough supplies and crockery among the carnage around the Nautiloid’s crash site.

4. Adrift (gen, Satele Shan)

It had been two years.

5. Programmed for Love (Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight)

It had started as such a normal day – if you could indeed have called any day on Odessen “normal”.

6. The Substitute (Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight)

If someone’s only exposure to the life of a spy came from action-packed, high-octane holodramas, they might have a mistaken impression that it is a life filled with glamour and intrigue, with dangerous liaisons with seductive individuals from the farthest constellations of the galaxy.

7. Smoke & Mirrors, chapter 19 (Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight, pre-relationship)

Sense memory was a funny thing — a sound, or a smell, or even a humid sea breeze could rewind time.

8. Another Day in Paradise (Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight)

The sand was soft and fine under Theron’s feet, and the breathtaking blue waters of Rishi lapped at his toes as the waves fell in succession on the shore.

9. Chance Encounters (Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight, pre-relationship)

In the infinite expanse of the galaxy, all things were bound together, irrevocably linked by the Force.

10. Untethered (Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight)

As a Jedi, some things should have been simple to summon.

[euphori-cat]

hi I forgot to crosspost this one oops

Satori walks her pets

[prinvessdior]

Three times you ask Kinich for something and the one time he asks for something.

tags: first person soz, bff! Mualani, I forgot ab Ajaw lol, y/n has a vision, established relationship, first kiss, just cute as hell, ft. me trying to write romantic tension.

wc: 3.6k

a/n: idk,, i think he needs more fics but yes crossposted on ao3 still editing as well

feel free to leave me req or msgs for any charc <3!

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

I think this was the fifth time I had water up my nose this afternoon. Or maybe it was the sixth, definitely. My nose and throat burned as I gasped for air above the water. My surfboard flung up beside me with another slap of water to my face. I hoisted myself back up to sit over my borrowed board. Mualani let me borrow one of her old ones from childhood. Since I'd never been able to surf. I wrung out my hair over my shoulder. "This is so hard," I whined to Mualani who padded over on her own board over to me.

Mualani only laughed, laying down on her stomach, "You're doing fine for a beginner." I doubted it. "Keep practicing, maybe you could finally convince Kinich to come to swim." 

I snorted and rolled my eyes, "Yeah like that'll happen."  

Mualani giggled, "He's a lost cause. Maybe if you asked him nicely, he might change his mind," she teased, sending me a look with a knowing smile. 

"I don't think a simple 'please' will do the trick," I retorted, paddling my board backward in the shallows. "He'd probably just come up with some excuse like 'I don't want to get my clothes wet' or something, and then go back to what he was doing," I grumbled.

Mualani snickered. "He can be such a diva sometimes. It's like he's scared to have any fun. I don’t know how you can date a guy like that."

She was being dramatic. He wasn’t that bad. I’ve known practically everyone since I was a kid, I know the ins and outs. Kinich just.. more so liked to keep to himself. I didn’t mind it though it really seemed like we had just become really good friends now even after putting a relationship title on us. 

"Though I'm sure he'd do anything you asked," Mualani says with a nod

I quickly looked away.

"Don't be ridiculous," I mumbled, "Kinich doesn't listen to anyone, let alone me." I quickly looked away.

Mualani gave me a knowing smile. "Oh come on, don't pretend you haven't noticed the way he looks at you. That boy is absolutely smitten with you."

I tried to feign indifference, though my heart thumped in my chest. "He doesn't look at me any differently than he looks at everyone else."

Mualani raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious? He's practically drooling every time you're around. And he always insists on helping you with anything you need, no matter how menial."

I shifted uncomfortably in my waterlogged swimsuit. "That's just who he is. He's like that with everyone. He's just...a good guy." I don’t think I wanted to spill my guts with my best friend about my relationship just yet.

Mualani rolled her eyes. "You can be so clueless sometimes. Trust me on this."

I huffed, pushing my soaked hair out of my eyes. "Even if you're right, which you're not, I doubt he'd ever actually do anything about it. Kinich is too aloof to make a move."

Mualani smirked. "That's where I think you're wrong. I've seen the way he stares at you when you're not looking. That boy has it bad. If you ask me, he's just been waiting for the right moment.”

I narrowed my eyes with a laugh, "Sure, and dendro slimes will fly someday. Besides, I can't even imagine Kinich acting all romantic. He's too sarcastic and quippy for mushiness."

Mualani shrugged. "Maybe you should try giving him a hint then. See if he responds. I know he'd be all over you in a heartbeat if he thought he had a chance."

"I don't know, Mualani...he's always been so closed off. It wouldn’t feel natural."

Mualani grinned. "Well, you could always try being a bit more... flirtatious. Give him some nonverbal cues to let him know you're interested. A touch on the arm, a smile, a compliment, something like that. See how he responds."

"Yeah, nope," I said with a determined nod, I'd give up my pyro vision back to our archon before doing something as embarrassing as that.

“C'mon! What’s the harm in it?”

I gave Mualani a pointed look, “The harm is we’ve only been together three months.” 

Mualani groaned, “But you’ve been friends for years!” She emphasized by splashing me with water.

I splashed her back, “I don’t expect anything from Kinich, Lani, I’m fine with what we have now.” 

“Yeah, but, did you ask him that? Maybe he wants to be closer with you.” 

Okay, yeah maybe I hadn’t thought about that. I paused mid-splash attack. “Oh.” 

Another splash of water to my face, as I tipped sideways losing balance sitting on my surfboard. I tipped straight into the water making another splash for the seventh time. 

Mualani was laughing when I arose from the surface. “Just try it. It’s not like he’ll outright reject you.” 

I gave Mualani a glare, “I’m going to go change. I’m done learning today.” 

“Ouchie, you really know how to burn me.” Mualani sighs with a dramatic expression. 

“Insanity.” I mumbled padding back to the shore with my best friend trailing behind me. Still making dramatic plans about how to get my boyfriend to be more open. I was not listening as she rambled all the way back to my house. 

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

I liked living right beside the hot springs. Even the ones that weren’t heated were usually the ones I gravitated towards. Given that Natlan was already hot, I never remembered my normal body temperature being this hot before I received my Pyro vision. 

But right now, I think I was jealous of Cyro Vision users. Kachina had requested my help near her tribe. She wanted to collect flowers among herbs, and fruits for the traveler to help her gain enough confidence to enter into the night warden wars. 

But it was too hot, and I was craving a bath. Being drenched in sweat was horrible. I didn’t want to complain in front of Kachina so I continued to follow her, we’d strayed far from The Children of The Echo’s tribe. 

“Do you think this is enough?” I asked the smaller girl once we’d stopped near a stream. 

“Uh-! I-.. I think so!” Kachina reached her arms up to take the fruits nestled in my bag. I happily let her take it as I took a seat near the stream for a much-needed breather. 

“Great, I’m just gonna.. sit down for a while.” 

Kachina gave me a nod with a bright smile. Which in turn made me smile. I felt like a big sister whenever I was with Kachina. It made it better that she was so smart and easy to talk to. I closed my eyes as a gust of wind helped cool my sweltering face. 

Kachina sat down beside me, dipping her toes into the water. “Thank you for helping me today, I really appreciate it.”

I smiled, grateful for the respite. “Of course, Kachina. It’s the least I can do. The Traveler did so much for you.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Yeah, they really did. I wouldn’t have had the courage to join the Night Warden Wars without their support.”

We sat by the stream, the cool water lapping at my feet, and my mind drifted back to what Mualani had said the day before. Could it really be that simple? Just say please? I found myself lost in a whirlwind of emotions as the cool water of the stream rippled around me. 

“Y/n? Y/n!” Kachina’s voice broke through my reverie, pulling me back to the present.

”Huh.” I blinked, realizing she was talking to someone. I turned to see Kinich standing there, looking a bit awkward but smiling warmly. 

“Hey, Y/n,” he greeted, his voice a little uncertain. “Are you okay?”

I forced a smile, trying to shake off my embarrassment. “Oh, hey, Kinich. Yeah, I’m fine. Just, you know, dying of the heat,” I joked, fanning myself dramatically.

He chuckled, his eyes softening. “Yeah, it’s pretty brutal today.” He turned to me and narrowed his eyes. “Should you really be out here for much longer? You don’t look so good.”

Before I could respond, Kachina’s face fell, and she quickly apologized. “Oh no, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize you weren’t feeling well. I shouldn’t have taken you so far.”

I shook my head, giving her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Kachina. I wanted to come out and help you. Really.”

She still looked worried, but I could see she was trying to believe me. I took a deep breath, deciding albeit hesitantly that if I were to test Mualani’s theory. Any time would be the best time “Kinich, could you please get me some water from the stream? I think it would help me cool down.”

To my surprise, he didn’t hesitate. Without a single sarcastic comment or playful tease, he nodded and walked over to the stream. The next thing I felt was the cool, wet rag on my forehead, and sighed in relief. Kinich's gentle touch was comforting as he helped me sit back down. My body was still cooling off from Natlan’s scorching heat.

"Thank you, Kinich," I said, looking up at him with a small smile.

He smiled back, though it was more a twitch of lips upwards, his eyes warm. "It was no problem at all. Just take it easy for a bit."

I nodded, leaning back into the grass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kachina watching us. She seemed to be trying hard not to look awkward, and I couldn't help but find it endearing.

"Are you okay, Y/n?" Kachina asked, her voice filled with genuine concern.

"Yeah, I think so," I replied, giving her a reassuring smile. "Just a bit... overwhelmed, I guess."

Kachina nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. "You two are really cute together," she blurted out, then immediately looked like she regretted it.

Kinich chuckled softly, and I felt my own cheeks flush. "Thanks, Kachina," I said, trying to ease her embarrassment. 

She smiled, looking a bit more relaxed. "Well, if you need anything, I'm here to help."

"Thanks," I said, appreciating her kindness. "I think I'll be okay now."

Kinich gave my hand a gentle squeeze. "Just rest for a bit. I'll be right here."

I nodded, feeling a little lightheaded. Not from the heat though. As I leaned back, feeling the coolness of the rag on my forehead, my mind wandered to Mualani’s words. Maybe she was right.

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

A couple of days later, I found myself in Xilonen’s shop, surrounded by shelves filled with various trinkets and artifacts. The air was filled with the scent of herbs and old parchment, a comforting reminder of the past. Xilonen and I were busy organizing her shop, a task that felt both familiar and soothing.

“Thanks for helping out, Y/n,” Xilonen said, her voice warm. “I’ve been meaning to get this place in order for ages.”

“No problem,” I replied, placing a stack of scrolls on a nearby shelf. “It’s nice to catch up. We haven’t had much time together since the war ended.”

She nodded a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Yeah, things have been so hectic. But it’s good to see you. How have you been holding up?”

I shrugged, trying to keep my tone light. “I’ve been okay. Just trying to figure things out, you know?”

Xilonen smiled knowingly. “I get it. It’s been a strange time for all of us. But I’m glad you’re here. It feels like old times.”

We continued to work in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythm of our movements almost meditative. As we sorted through a box of ancient artifacts, Xilonen suddenly looked up, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So, I heard a little rumor that you and Kinich are dating now. Is it true?” Probably from Mualani...

I felt my face heat up slightly but nodded. “Yeah, it’s true.”

Xilonen grinned. “I knew it! How’s that going? I mean, considering how Kinich… is.”

I chuckled, understanding what she meant. “It’s going fine, actually. He’s been really sweet and supportive. It’s still new, but we’re figuring it out.”

She nodded, her expression softening. “That’s good to hear. Kinich can be ahh.. how do I put this? Blunt? but he has a good heart.”

“Yeah, he does,” I agreed, feeling a warm glow at the thought of him. “He’s been really great.”

we continued to clean, the door to the shop opened, and Kinich walked in. His eyes immediately found mine, and he smiled warmly Again, just the hint of his lips turning at the corners. “Hey, Y/n,” he greeted, then turned to Xilonen. “Xilonen.”

“Hey, Kinich,” I replied, feeling a flutter of happiness at seeing him.

Xilonen gave him a playful look. “Didn’t expect to see Y/n here, huh?”

Kinich chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, I was a bit surprised. What’s going on?”

Xilonen rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, so I can’t see my friend for a day? I asked Y/n to help me clean up since it’s been a while.”

Kinich nodded, looking a bit awkward. “Right, of course. Well, it’s good you both are here. I actually came by to let you know that someone from The Children of the Echos commissioned me for a project, so I don’t have much time to chat.”

“That’s great, What kind of project?” genuinely wanting to know

He shrugged, a small smile on his face. “It’s a bit of a mystery for now, but I’ll fill you in later.”

Xilonen smirked. “Always keeping secrets, huh?”

Kinich laughed. “Something like that. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I’ll catch up with you both later.”

It was the perfect time to test Mualani's theory further. I spotted an item on a high shelf that I couldn't reach and decided to ask Kinich for help.

"Kinich, could you please help me get that down?" I called out, pointing to a random scroll.

He stopped talking to Xilonen almost instantly and came up behind me. "Sure, what do you need?" he asked, his voice so, so close to my ear.

I pointed at the scroll again. "That one, right up there."

Without hesitation, Kinich reached over my head and grabbed it, his arm brushing against mine. He handed it to me with a smile. "Here you go."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a bit flustered by how quickly he had responded.

"No problem," he replied. "I have to go now, but I'll see you later." He turned to Xilonen and me, giving us both a quick nod. "Goodbye, Xilonen. Bye, Y/n."

"Bye, Kinich," we both said in unison as he left the shop.

As the door closed behind him, Xilonen turned to me with a curious look. "What was that? I've never seen Kinich act like that before."

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "I don't know. Maybe he's just being extra helpful today."

Xilonen raised an eyebrow. "Extra helpful, huh? Well, whatever it is, it's definitely interesting."

I smiled,  Maybe Mualani was onto something after all.

“I should get going too,” I said, giving Xilonen a hug. “Thanks for today. It was really nice to catch up.”

"Oh yeah totally! I can handle the rest here. Also, come by anytime,” she replied, hugging me back. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I won’t,” I promised, smiling as I headed out the door.

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

I found myself back at Mualani’s place, surfboard in hand and ready for another lesson. Mualani was determined to teach me how to surf, and I was equally determined to make her proud, even if it meant a few more wipeouts.

“Hey, ‘Lani!” I greeted her, adjusting my swimsuit as I approached. “Ready for another round?”

Mualani grinned, her eyes always sparkling with excitement. “Always! But first, tell me have you been messing with Kinich? He’s been super quiet. More than usual.”

I laughed, setting my surfboard down. “Really? That’s funny. I’ve been testing your theory. It’s been interesting, to say the least. I really don’t think he’s reacting. He’s doing things any normal boyfriend would do.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “You absolutely need to keep it up. Yesterday he looked like he was going to explode.”

I snorted a laugh Mualani clapped her hands together. “Alright, enough talk. Let’s hit the waves!”We headed down to the beach, the sound of the ocean filling the air.

As we paddled out, Mualani and I chatted about everything and nothing, enjoying the easy flow of conversation. Suddenly, someone from the tribe called out to Mualani, needing her assistance with something urgent.

Mualani sighed, giving me an apologetic look. “Duty calls. Just focus on balancing on the board for now, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Got it!” I called, watching as she paddled back to the shore.

Left to my own devices, I paddled out to the shallow part of the water. I stood up on the board, feeling the gentle sway of the ocean beneath me. Balancing was tricky, but I was determined to get the hang of it. I took a deep breath, focusing on keeping my stance steady.

The sun was warm on my skin, and the sound of the waves was soothing.

My balance wavered, and I tumbled into the water with a splash. As I surfaced, sputtering and wiping the saltwater from my eyes, I heard a familiar voice.

"Having trouble there?" Kinich asked, a teasing smile on his face.

I felt my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. "Maybe just a little," I admitted, trying to laugh it off.

He chuckled, wading over to me. "Here, let me help you." He reached out, steadying me as I stood up in the water. His hands were firm but gentle, and I felt a bit more stable with his support.

"Thanks," I mumbled reeling from the taste of saltwater, feeling self-consciousness.

"No problem," he replied, still holding my surfboard, "Everyone falls sometimes. It's part of the learning process."

I nodded, appreciating his encouragement. "Yeah, I guess so."

He handed me the board, his eyes warm with amusement. "Just keep at it. You'll get the hang of it."

The sun glinted off the water as I turned towards Kinich, curiosity, and anxiety bubbling with the ripples of the water.

“Kinich,” I called out, voice catching the wind.

“Would you help me with this, please? I mean, with keeping my balance on the board?”

His gaze softened, and without a word, he nodded. With practiced ease, he dropped the surfboard into the water, and it settled with a small splash. Approaching me, he placed his hands gently around my waist, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.

My heart beat wildly, like drums against my chest—not just from the thrill, but from the intimate touch. Kinich’s hands lingered longer than necessary as he steadied me on the board, fingers warm against her skin through the thin fabric of my swimsuit. His grip was firm, yet tender, as though he was acutely aware of his strength and its effect.

“This good?” he asked, voice low, almost a whisper. It sent shivers down my spine, as I nodded, unable to find my voice. So instead I nodded, slowly.

Once Kinich was convinced Ihad found my balance, he slowly let go. For a few moments, I managed to stay upright, it was my triumph. But the waves had other plans. The board wobbled violently beneath my feet, and with a startled yelp, I lost my footing. In the blink of an eye, I grabbed onto Kinich, pulling him down with me. We both plunged into the cool embrace of the ocean. Breaking the surface, I wiped the water from my eyes, only to be met with the sight of a thoroughly drenched and disheveled Kinich. My initial shock dissolved into a fit of giggles. 

“I am so sorry!” I gasped between laughs, noticing the way his usually calm demeanor was replaced with a mixture of surprise a cute scowl. “You look... upset.”

Kinich’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Upset with you? Never.”

His eyes held mine, a glint of mischief playing in their sunsets. “Actually,” he continued, his voice low and sincere, “since you’ve been asking so politely, I thought I might as well ask the same... Can I please kiss you?”

Time seemed to pause as his words settled over. The world faded around us, leaving just the two of us in that perfect, sunlit moment. I barely managed a nod.

Kinich's lips met mine with a tenderness that took my breath away. The kiss was soft, almost hesitant as if he was savoring the moment, afraid it might slip away too soon. His hands, still resting on my hips, tightened slightly, pulling closer but never forcefully. 

I felt the warmth of his touch through the cool water, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on my revealed skin. The world around us seemed to fade, leaving only the sensation of his lips on mine and the steady rhythm of our breaths mingling. 

As the kiss deepened, Kinich's hand moved to cradle my face, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheekbone. It was a gesture of pure affection, a silent promise of his care and respect. I responded in kind, my own hands finding their way to his shoulders, feeling the strength and warmth beneath my fingertips.

When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine, heavy breaths mingling in the space between us. Kinich's eyes searched mine, a soft smile playing on his lips. Before he frowned.

"Now please stop saying please," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of the waves. "I can't take it anymore."

[theorist-fox]

Hesitate

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3

It can also be read as a standalone!

The description you'll read of Simon is heavily based on this fanart by @tiggerriot (give the creator some love!!!) because it has been occupying my mind 24/7. I'm in a chokehold.

Word count: 6k

Summary: Simon loses sight of you for far too long. In that time, he realizes he can't go a day without having you within reach. When you return, he tells you in the only way he knows.

18+

CW: smut (fingering, PinV), but with plot. Tiny angst, fluff. Protective and possessive Simon Riley. Mentions of stabbing and blood. Minor injuries.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Quiet.”

He barges in. Because of course he does. There isn’t a piece of flooring in this godforsaken base that hasn’t been violently reclaimed by Ghost’s boots.

Not even in your goddamn room.

Thankfully, you have the reflexes of a trained operative and have moved out of the way in time, otherwise you'd be sporting a wonderful, purple knob in the middle of your forehead. And while there is a certain distaste surging in your chest – the kind that makes your lips pucker and your stomach knot –, you know there is very little you can do to move the mountain that is Ghost.

So, you close the door behind you with an exhausted sigh, as he ventures further into your room.

“Good eve-“

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “Where the fuck ‘ave you been, uh?”

The balaclava on his face does absolutely nothing to hide the hatred sizzling in his eyes. Funny, because you’ve always thought that it was the whole point of the thing – to hide his face. You wonder, sometimes, if he knows just how expressive his eyes are. 

Does he know he tells so much more with those than he ever does with words? 

Nevertheless, yours are as telling as his own, as they bulge out of your sockets. The odd look you give him is comical, compared to the ire that's practically singeing his clothes.

“Uh,” you stutter. “Deployment?”

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits. So tiny you have to squint your eyes yourself to catch a glimpse of his irises.

“Alone?” He asks, clearly skeptical.

To match the distrust in his tone, you tilt your head toward his, brows furrowing in confusion. 

“…Yeah?” You reply, and the more you go on the more sarcastic you sound. “We do that, sometimes. Lone ops, recon. Y’know, we’re in the UKSF, in case you, uh – forgot.”

He hums gravelly. A sound that causes his body to straighten up as if the cogs have finally started whirring and working seamlessly once again.

“Don’t get smart, now.” He warns, freezing you with a look.

You pucker your lips and instinctively show him your palms, cheekily replying with an “I would never.”

Wrong move, unfortunately. 

You are your worst enemy. 

If this conversation goes downhill, you are the one to blame. Schedule a punishing whipping for yourself, later – you better fetch the goddamn cat o’ nine tails.

The movement causes the long sleeve of your loungewear to slip further down your forearm, pooling at your elbow, and exposing a large bruise. A galaxy of greens and mauves in the shape of five fingers and a large palm.

Ghost’s eyes zero on your arm with the rapidity of a hawk. Price has always said it, after all: he only knows one sniper who’s better than Ghost, and she’s a thousand klicks away now. You miss her – Farah would’ve been a lot nicer about this than him.

When his focus returns to you, he doesn’t even have to ask. As you’ve already stated time and time again, he conveys a lot more with his eyes.

And they are absolutely fuming. 

You suck in a sharp breath, nodding your head slowly while returning your sleeve where it’s supposed to be. Fucking traitorous piece of cotton that should stick around your wrist.

“Y’know,” you start, your chest all puffed because – well, you ain’t breathing right. Not with Ghost staring you down like you’ve gone and killed the King of England. “I had to sneak in, grab the USB key our contact set up for us, and then – bang, vanish. And I did it, yeah? I was brilliant at it.”

The smile on your face is as fake as the cheerful tone you’re using to dispense this information. It cracks as soon as you see the fabric of the balaclava shift on his jaw. 

He’s grinding his molars into dust.

“And?” 

You gesture vaguely. Shift your eyes to the ceiling. Tongue your cheek. Try to downplay it. “Well, ‘s nothing really.”

“Sergeant.” He barks. If he had hackles, they’d be dusting the ceiling. 

You sigh. 

God, how long have you been holding onto that breath? You’re positive it was the air you’ve inhaled, like, ten thousand years ago.

“Someone thought I was acting a bit dodgy and had me pinned to the floor.” You made grabby hands with a cheeky smile, “I have meaty forearms. Plenty to grip.”

Humor is usually the key to lessen the tension that would strangle your and his lungs. Normally, he’d let it go. He’d listlessly smack the back of your head or pinch the flesh of your biceps and call it a day.

Now, sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight. The night lamp on your bedside table sheds light against his back, making him look like he's the wolf ready to pounce what it's going to be his dinner.

It makes your blood curdle.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff, digging your fingertips in the back of your neck to release some tension. “Nothing happened. I jabbed him in the throat before he could shout for help and shoved him under a desk. Got myself a proper blood shower.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

And then he goes silent. 

Not the news of the year, of course. He’s always silent. You know he doesn’t get his callsign from that, but you can’t help but find his personality incredibly fitting with the military nickname.

However, this isn’t the usual Simon shut-up-and-sod-off Riley. He’s so still you wonder if he’s breathing. You have half a mind to wave your hand in front of his eyes to check if he’s gone catatonic.

You don’t, of course. Dogs bite.

You sneer, more in concern than anything, and gingerly take a step forward. Initially, your question comes out simply as a sideway tilt of your head paired with a puzzled look – a question mark would be floating above you, if physically possible.

But when that doesn’t seem enough to coax an answer out of him, you blurt out an “Oi.”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel to your face. Always with the heavy-lidded gaze that makes him look like he’d love to be anywhere but where he currently is. 

He seems… calmer. You're not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You prefer it when he's fuming because, as the saying goes, better the devil you know. 

“Off.” He states. 

Of course, he prefers syllables to full, clear sentences. Expressions you (or anyone else, really) don’t seem to catch, unfortunately. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him that if he wants to have a conversation, he should start stringing words one after the other instead of settling for just one.

“What?” You deadpan. “Off with the bullshit? Off with my head? Words, L.T.” 

You don’t seem to have learned from your past mistake of using humor to sneak out of a predicament when Ghost appears to have all hell ready to unleash. 

He roughly points at your chest, “The shirt,” and then aims his finger to the floor. “Off.”

Look at you: dumbfounded. 

Sure, you two have fucked, occasionally – ever since he’d come to terms with the idea that he could do it without getting into trouble. It’s not like he gives two shits about someone finding out, he just doesn’t want to deal with commanding officers explaining to him why he shouldn’t stick it anywhere he finds fitting. God forbid someone puts him through one of those seminars about relationship policies and how they can disrupt the chain of command.

You splutter, “Wha – Excuse me?”

“Ya heard.” He reiterates. “The shirt. Off.”

You scoff. “You wanna fuck now?”

“Didn’t say tha’, did I?” He says flatly.

“Oh, sorry!” You snark. “Didn’t think there were other reasons why you’d want me to flash my tits.”

“Didn’t say tha’ either.” He deadpans and swipes his index finger in the air again. “Off with the shirt.”

You huff, pinching the bridge of your nose while, stubbornly, still wearing the t-shirt. 

“Not in the mood to have sex, honestly,” you explain, trying to stay calm in the face of the implications of the request. “I came back this morning, I’m beat. I need a cuppa and some sleep –“

He switches, then. “Take off that fucking shirt, sergeant.”

You bristle. Anyone would, at that tone.

Suddenly, you’re back to basic training in Pirbright with your wench of a drill instructor calling you a fucking idiot. 

Needless to say, you follow through with his order and rip the shirt off with more spite than cooperation. With a big frown on your face, you turn on your heel and start stomping angrily towards the bed.

“Make it quick.” You snap, getting on your knees on the edge of the mattress, ready to get pounded into oblivion. 

You’ll like it, eventually, even if you’re not really in the mood. 

Ghost fucks you good. It’s undeniable. 

You’ve soaked his sheets, his clothes, his mask – he’s that type of good. You won’t tell him though; his ego is already too big. If it grows more, HQ won’t be able to contain it and the whole base will blow up into smithereens.   

You’re saving lives, here, by keeping your mouth shut about it.

But he has other plans, it seems. 

“The fuck are you doin’.” 

It is not, in fact, a question. 

You look over your shoulder and find him still standing where you left him, a few paces back.

You quirk a brow, and shoot it back at him, “The fuck are you doing.”

“Why are you bendin’ over.” He states.

"To fuck?" You say, an unsaid obviously lingering in the air. 

Something shifts under his mask, as if he’s scowling. “Who said I wanted to fuck?” 

You splutter, yet again caught by surprise. “You made me get naked.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated, and approaches you, who is – by the way – still shamefully on all fours on the tiny bed of your quarters. 

Suddenly, all that spite sublimates under the heavy, hot weight of embarrassment. 

What are you doing, on your knees on the bed, half naked, if he doesn’t want to fuck?

In your defense, while the two of you often spent time chatting about everything and nothing, that happened in public places. Not once has he knocked on your door for a spot of tea and decent conversation.

Regardless, as soon as you manage to stand on your knees, you can feel him right behind you. Scorching fingers of shame crawl up to your neck. You feel your chest warm up, all the way to the apples of your cheeks. Awkwardly, you bring your arms up to cover your breasts. 

“Off,” he orders, again.

You swallow dryly, offering an insecure smile. “…With the pants?” 

He gives you a glacial look. Your blood freezes in your vessels. You think you might have turned cyanotic. 

“Fuckin’ hell – Off the bed.”

Obviously, your feet touch the ground with impeccable speed, because after that display, the least you can do is follow through with his orders before you make a fool of yourself twice in under a minute.

You feel his fingers curl around the top of your head, only allowing the pads to tangle through your hair and touch your scalp. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to touch you, but feels compelled to do so.

He flicks his wrist to give you a sense of the direction he wants you to turn to, and you do, waddling a little on your feet as you slowly twirl.

Your hands are tucked under your biceps, which are currently strangling your ribcage in an attempt to cover as much of your chest as you can with your forearms. 

When you’re finally facing him again, you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes, however, are not on your tits as you expect. He’s not even ogling, to be honest – which would be a blow to your ego, if the situation weren’t so… odd. 

Your brows are pinched. Your mouth parts only so you can suck in some air and then worry your lip between your teeth. 

This is much too intimate than what you’re used to. 

You realize, as he studies your body, with that weirdly placed hand on your head, that Ghost has never… seen it. 

Or – well, he’s seen it all right, but he’s never looked at it. Your encounters are usually very quick and to the point.

He fucks you. 

You come – once or twice. Thrice, if he’s feeling particularly generous.

He comes. 

Get yourself a glass o’ water and jog on. ‘M knackered.

Yeah, okay. G’night, prick.

Right back at ya.

That’s it.

Sometimes, you don’t even take off each other’s clothes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even turn on the lights. 

Now, his gaze is heavy as he looks at the dip of your waist, then at the fuzz below your belly button and where it leads, until the hem of your slouchy sweatpants that have seen better days. It’s like having lasers pointed at every nook and cranny of you, leaving scorching lines along your profile. 

He taps his finger on your forearm, the one without the bruise – a silent request to take your arms off your chest. Your hands are shaking as you comply, but you’re too preoccupied with him to notice. 

Ghost seems utterly uninterested at the sight of your tits bouncing down in response to gravity, instead setting his focus on the edges of your ribcage.

He flicks his wrist again, and you slowly turn the other way, giving him your back.

You feel his fingers twitch against your scalp, before a cold fingertip brushes against your right side.

"Here." He states, barely tracing the lines of your ribs. 

It's been so long since he's last spoken that you feel goosebumps rise along your neck. God, his voice will never not make your insides churn.

Regardless, you spread your elbows out, lifting your right arm so you can look at where he's pointing. You can't see much, but you definitely feel how the slight movement of your shoulder causes your right side to ache as if the skin were ready to burst at the seams.

“Ow.” 

You frown and curiously try again to take a peek at the cause of the pain. After some squirming, you spot the darkening patch of flesh, speckled with purples and yellows.

“Mh,” you muse. “Didn’t know that was there.”

The hand on your head finally abandons it, allowing the muscles on your neck to relax. 

You continue, somewhat feeling the need to explain why there is yet another bruise. “When that man saw me, he knocked me onto the floor. Must’ve hit it harder than I thought.”

He hums noncommittally. You could’ve told him the most absurd tale, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, much too focused on the expanse of your back. 

You shrug, then. “’S alright. It’ll pass. It’s just a bruise.”

It’s then that he meets your eyes. 

There’s always a sort of veil over his, whenever the air around you both thickens. You wish you had scissors to rip it, sometimes. Or walk to the curtain and take a peek inside. 

“What is this?” You gesture at the two of you, looking back at him over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He deflects your questions with the same reflexes he uses to dodge bullets, answering instead with a question of his own. “You went to medical?”

Your lips twitch and you have to school your face into more muted frustration. 

Your response is a little petty, but you can’t help but give it to him. “No, just a couple of bumps, nothing that needs a trip to the doctor."

He is a looming shadow behind you, encompassing you with dark tendrils that threaten to swallow you whole. He sucks the warmth of the room with the ice embedded in his eyes – it forces you to look away, finding comfort in your own hands cupping your biceps.

You don’t even manage to reach for your t-shirt again, feeling the need to cover yourself up, that he curls an uncharacteristically gentle hand around your jaw. 

You stiffen. 

He seizes that moment to turn your head, his other fingers already hooked at the hem of his balaclava around the neck. He slides it up and off naturally.

There’s always some sort of solemnity when his face comes into view. 

Each groove and bump tell a story of their own, not a single one coming from the same tale, nor the same blade. 

He has crow's feet, but he rarely smiles – if ever. There are lines originating from the sides of his nose tipping at each corner of his mouth. They should symbolize happiness carved, but you fear it’s the opposite. 

Thick, convoluted scars paint him like rough brush strokes given by an angry hand – bristles of steel, paint of blood. 

Teeth peek out from a particularly gruesome injury that has torn the flesh off his upper lip. He constantly looks like he’s scowling at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was. Would fit the character, and all.

Truth is, Simon rarely cares enough to scowl at anyone. You can either get a cold side glance or a disinterested one – if it’s the former, then you might be in his good graces. 

Right now, though, you don’t think he’s giving you either. His eyes are murky; a mud of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. He looks like he hates you with all his might, staring at you as if he could, by sheer force of thought, scoop out the eyes from your sockets.

“You wanna kill me?” You mumble, finding it hard to speak as he holds your jaw between his fingers. “Get in line, mate. There are at least a bunch a’ Russian men and their mothers before you, ever since I shanked their colleague.”

Then, his eyes leave yours to glance at your lips. He must think you haven’t noticed, because he doesn’t bother to hide it. However – and you’ve always found this incredibly interesting – Ghost tends to forget when he’s wearing the mask and when he isn’t. 

Each time, it’s like watching a child learning how to rein it in. Or, you know, like that sibling you have to surreptitiously elbow under the table at Christmas dinner when your pissed uncle is going off a tangent regarding the most idiotic, misplaced subject ever known to man.

That’s Ghost right now. 

The sibling elbowing him? Simon.

He blinks out of his headspace and then frowns, returning his eyes to yours.

“Don’t need to.” He grunts. “You’re doin’ a fine job by yourself.”

You scoff. “It’s just a bruise.”

His jaw ticks. 

“Yeah, but it’s on you.”

It’s said low and bitter, as if he’s had to fight tooth and nail to yank it out of his chest. 

You, on the other hand, are stock still in place – not only because of his hand holding you firmly by the jaw, forcing you to look over your shoulder to where he stands, but also because what was that?

You swallow but it's futile because your tongue is stuck to your palate. The air surrounding you crackles. The oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. 

You blink. That’s all it takes, and he lands his mouth on you.

Ghost’s kisses are always rough, determined to take your breath away and leave you wondering if you’ll ever say any other name but his own. This one is not much different, but you have to recognize that it is somewhat angrier. 

His lips part as if he could swallow you whole, working his tongue against yours and hindering your movements with his fingers holding your face, and a hand over your belly.

You can work with this. This, you know how to behave around. This is charted territory – the hunger, the stress, the need to decompress and find solace in the oasis you offer so generously between your legs.

You know the dance, and so you press your bum against his groin. You weren’t in the mood, like – ten minutes ago. You were a different person back then. 

If Ghost now wants to split you in half, you’d hand him the butcher knife.

You’re already turning feverish, lifting your right arm to tangle with his hair, ready to grab and pull and bite and – 

He stops you.  Palm to your knuckles, guiding it down once more. He doesn’t hold your hand, instead removing his own as though your skin were burning coal. 

Not as carefully, though, he snakes under your sweatpants and unceremoniously dips his middle finger inside your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hiss. 

You weren’t that wet, and while you're not one to say no to a bit of pain, this has caught you so off guard that you decide to chastise him by nipping at his lower lip. 

It’s not much of a punishment, you guess, because his hips jerk to rub himself against you. 

You wish to move and take this to the bed, where you can lie down and be his pillow princess. Let him fuck you until his heart's content, because you're tired and you'd love to get used for his pleasure and yours.

But he’s an unmoving statue, boots glued to the floor and hand shackled to your pussy, dipping in relentlessly until your knees buckle under the sheer pressure of his finger buried to the knuckle. 

When your hips start undulating to increase the friction – specifically of his palm against your neglected bundle of nerves where your pussy tips – he inserts a second finger, and you positively melt against his chest. It’s then that he releases your lips, allowing you to moan under your breath. 

He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can find, leaving love bites on the length of your shoulders all the way to your neck. Teeth and tongue and words that escape his lips, while he curls his fingers inside you, drowning your thoughts in frayed growls from his mouth, and raunchy squelches from between your legs. His offhand gets busy and starts toying and pulling at your nipples. 

You're being absolutely ravaged; his nails are talons and he wants to rip you apart and eat you inside out after he's prepped you alright. It's juxtaposing - the pleasure, and the crudeness. It's new, but not unwelcome.

“You should’ve told me.” He grunts. You don’t pay it much mind, he usually murmurs a lot during sex, and less than half of the time you catch what he says – the other times, you’re already too stupid to use your senses.

“Should’ve.”

He snaps his finger upward, burying them to the knuckle.

“Told me."

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"You were being posted." 

Finally, he curls his fingers inside, making your legs quiver.

You whimper and your eyes roll back. Is this your punishment? Hell fucking yes, then. You’ll keep your secrets more often. 

But alas, you do feel compelled to at least explain and apologize.

“M’sorry,” you breathe, “It was a last-minute thing. Got called the day before.”

Surely, he’ll understand. That’s how deployments work: they give you a timeframe, and you might or might not get the dreaded call. If you do, then you’re off – one day you’re lounging at the beach, the next you’re buried in gore.

No in-between. 

You don't want to distract him though. You're so close. If he just – moved a little, maybe? Or allowed you to rest your legs somewhere. 

You shift imperceptibly so that you can rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm. The callouses on the heel of his hand make it somehow even better.

He allows you, meaning that even if you’ve kept the deployment from him, he’s feeling magnanimous.

You roll your head against his shoulder to nuzzle his neck, the tip of your nose tucked behind his lobe. You pant as he fucks you with his fingers, and murmur sweet things about how good he is to you, because he’s being kind and for that he deserves a generous stroke to his ego. You leave open kisses on his neck, his jaw, lapping the sweat off his skin with your tongue – to try and give back some of the pleasure he’s offering you.

When you come, it is with a loud groan muffled in his neck, and he holds you by the waist before you keel over. The orgasm almost stings, since he’s ripped it out of you so quickly and forcefully. It tingles from the tips of your toes, curling against the linoleum, all the way to the knot that finally snaps in your gut. 

Only then, when your vision clears and your skin still prickles in goosebumps, do you hear him through the ringing of your ears.

“You don’t understand.” He’s saying, like a prayer repeated gruffly to the skin of your neck. 

He doesn’t say it once, he doesn’t say it twice. He repeats it with fervor, and the more it escapes his mouth, the angrier it gets.

You feel the back of your knee being pushed by his own, and you stumble forward on the mattress. You’re confused, still descending from the high of your orgasm, feeling your limbs move under his command and notyours. Trying to find sense in his words. 

You don’t understand.

Your ears are cottoned – the orgasm has been that blissful – but you still catch the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your front is plastered against the mattress, cheek buried in linen of freshly washed sheets. 

You don’t have the strength to stand, nor to look behind, so you can solely rely on your hearing, on your touch.

Shallow breaths. 

Shuffle of fabric – he’s taking off his shirt. 

His hand skims over your back, purposefully avoiding the bruise on your side. 

A finger pulls down the sweatpants to your ankles – the air feels cold against your skin, flushed and burning. 

Wet fingertips trail down your legs with uncommon reverence, until they reach down and yank the pants off your feet.

The denim of his jeans shifts. A thud – he’s on his knees.

He forces your leg to bend and kisses your ankle. Then the arch of your foot. Your toes, and it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. The actions are paired with a wet, rhythmic sound – he’s touching himself the way you’d touch him. 

He has fingered you with such voracity you thought you’d rip in half on his hand, and now he’s on his knees, kissing your feet. He’s switching rapidly – angry, then devoted. 

The former you know, but the latter is different. It’s new. 

You feel the mattress dip and protest under the additional weight, each of his thighs on either side of yours, keeping your legs flush together. 

A hand appears in your vision, gripping the sheets. 

You kiss the knuckle on his thumb, and he flicks it gently over your nose. 

His chest exudes warmth even if he isn’t properly touching your back. He simply hovers above it, putting his weight on his palm, while his other hand is busy stroking his cock.

You're wet and prepped just how he likes, in fact he slides in easily. 

You already came, which means you're hypersensitive – it feels like he's inserting something long and scorching hot inside. Your breath hitches in your throat at the intrusion, and he dips his forehead to your shoulder, leaving an apologetic kiss.

He fucks you slow and deep, dragging backward without ever pulling out. He wants to stay sheathed inside. He wants to bury himself in there, with your velvet walls squeezing him dry. You won’t complain. You’ll keep him snug until he’s sated. Until you are, too.  

This dance you know as well, and so you fold your arms behind you, bending your elbows so that he can grip both your forearms with one hand and use them as leverage to rail you until you’re only babbling nonsense.

But he… doesn’t?

He still fucks you, sure, but his hand doesn’t reach for your arms, preferring the sheets instead, and it makes you feel a little neglected, wondering if you're doing something wrong. Sure – you just came, he’s treated you to your nice little post-operation orgasm, and then proceeded to fuck you. So, he must still be into this – into you. 

Right? 

You thought this could’ve been a nice way to reciprocate, since you know how much he likes to get you to bend as he pleases.

A thank you of sorts. 

You reach up with your fingers, tickling his abdomen to make him notice that you’ve prepared yourself for him, arms knotted behind your back like a bow on a present – just in case he’s missed it, you know?

But he reaches down only to guide your arms back to the bed, distending them ahead. He goes to hold one hand but stops, instead digging his palm back into the mattress.

Just when you’re about to protest, lifting your head from the bed, he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear. 

You shudder. 

"I- I'm not good at this." He grunts as he fucks you slowly, dragging breathy moans out of your lips. "So jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s then that his pace picks up, punching a ragged groan out of your lips at the first abrupt thrust. 

He’s either doing it to shut you up, or to make you focus on something else while he speaks. So, maybe, if you’re busy molding your pussy around his cock and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you won’t hear what he’s saying.

“Lieut –“

“Simon.” He chides loudly. “Fuck – Told you it’s Simon, ‘ere.”

You grip the sheets as your head bobs to the pace he takes. Your breathing is more akin to a wheeze, and your belly flutters each time he hits you just right.

“Simon,” you whimper.

“Yeah,” he croons. “Simon. Good.”

Simon is as breathless as you are, but much more contained.

“Need to know where you are,” he murmurs under his breath. “You got no idea wha’ I –“

He releases a shuddering breath that tickles your ear. 

You’re keening and shivering, trying to focus on his words but it seems like he’s trying his best to prevent you from listening, even if he’s the one who’s asked you to.

There’s something rabid in his motions. He bullies his cock as deep as it can reach, his hips brutally slap against your ass. You can feel the fat recoiling, the vibration tipping at the base of your skull. He’s feral and yet it’s so different.

He groans, but it's frustrated more than satisfied. 

“You got no fuckin’ idea, do ya?” He mutters the sentence like a curse. “No fuckin’ idea. You – “

You reach for his hand with your own, but he swats it away. 

You try again and he nibbles at your ear.

“Don’t." He warns lowly, stilling his motions until he’s hilted all the way inside. 

You suck in a breath as he shoves himself until there’s not an inch of space for him to move.

He’s ramrod stiff above you, struggling to keep his chest off your back – denying you of his skin. Of intimacy. Of contact. 

You twist your head that much to look at his face and find him staring blankly ahead. 

To say it worries you would be an understatement, especially if paired with the puzzling behavior he’s had all evening. 

You follow the trajectory of his gaze with your eyes and heartbreakingly discover that he's burning holes in your bruised flesh – the hand of that now-dead man still darkly imprinted on your skin. 

Skin still untouched by him.

You feel yourself falter. “Si-“

“You’re hurt.” he croaks. “I’ll hurt you more.”

You don’t know what staggers you the most: his cock up your cervix making you dizzy, or the hesitance in his voice. 

Hesitance.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. He’s not tentative. 

He takes.

If he can’t take, he delegates, and whatever he needs eventually will fall into his hand. 

You fell into his hand without too much of a fuss. He gave you the impression that you were the one demanding and obtaining, but the truth obviously lies elsewhere. 

Simon wanted you, too. He wants you, too.

He gave you the chance to sneak into his office and request an immediate closure to the cat-and-mouse chase. He delegated it to you.

And then he took.

Hesitance, clearly, isn’t in his daily vocabulary. 

This dance, you don’t know. You’re out of your zone. You don’t know which steps to take without tripping over his toes and disrupting the music. 

He’s unmoving inside of you, catching his breath with his lips on your ear.

“Can’t hurt you.” He breathes, and you have to focus to even catch it. 

“You won’t,” you whisper, trying a first step. “I’ll tell you if – “

And it’s the wrong one.

He starts again, pulling out and fiercely slamming back in. Your breathing snaps, palm coming down to slap against the mattress, “Fuck!”

It would feel oh, so good, if you were in the right headspace. 

He won’t allow you to talk. He’s begging you, in his contorted ways, to let him speak without judgment. Without the fear of knowing he has dropped the mask too low. 

This is his time. 

You should’ve shut your mouth, for once, and allowed him to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He asked for one thing. 

Jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.

You purse your lips in a line and nudge your head against his own, a silent way to prompt him to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m listening.

“You got no idea.” He repeats again, but this time his voice cracks – overwhelmed.

He starts his voracious pace that always steals your breath and fucks your brain into a mush.

“I’ve looked for ya, asked ‘round – no one fucking knew. Got told you were off on deployment, and that’s it.” 

Each word is as accusatory and irate as the cock he’s drilling inside of you. 

“You weren’t comin’ back. One. Two. Three weeks. No fuckin’ sign of ya.” He thrusts in for each week you’ve gone missing, “I was – “

He stops. Inhales sharply. Hesitates, once again.

“Don’t wanna feel tha’ again – don’t put me through that again.”

Suddenly, you can feel everything at once. 

Your body perks up. 

Vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell – all filled of him.

And it’s not about sex anymore. 

It never has been, but how obvious it is now.

You want to hold his hand, but you decide to leave him space. 

The hand-shaped bruise on your arm glares at him like a promise he silently made with himself and failed to keep. You won’t make him feel like he broke a thing, because he hasn’t.

If anything, you’ve never felt more whole in your life.

You and Simon have never gone further than physical. You don't know how to soothe a heart so afraid if it belongs to him. So, you do the only thing you’ve learned that manages to get through to him.

You keen and moan and breathe, allowing tiny praises and sinful curses to leave your lips. 

Like that – yeah. Shit.

Yes, yes, yes. 

Deeper. Please.

His name – not his callsign, not his rank.

Simon, you croon. Simon, Simon, Simon. 

You feel the pressure of his come spurting out, flooding your walls like a dam has broken and crushed. His mouth on your ear won’t allow a single sound to pass, but he’s clearly overly affected – you know, by the way his breath comes. As if he’s clinging to life and has found purchase for survival right on your skin.

You want to kiss him, but you leave the choice up to him. You won’t squirm under the press of his forehead against your temple, but your lips are there for him to taste – moist and plump and ready.

Simon’s lashes flutter against your cheekbone as he regains his bearings. Looks at you. His eyes hint at regret – it’s a fraction of a second that has your stomach knot. But then he squashes it down, when he realizes that you saw nothing wrong in his words.

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. Thankfulness seeps through.

"Don't hide from me again," he murmurs and gingerly hooks his thumb around your pinky. Not touching you yet, not so close to where you’re already aching.

You curl your finger around his own. “I won’t.”

[solxamber]

Dragon's Favourite Sacrifice – Trey Clover x reader

Trey finds himself volunteering to be the human sacrifice to you in place of his siblings. What he didn't expect was to become your housekeeper instead of being eaten.

Crossposted from my ao3!

The village doesn’t know how to react when Trey volunteers as a sacrifice. He’s fully prepared for the worst, thinking back on all the horror stories the elders tell about the dragon god—the terrifying, ancient being that can destroy their village with one swipe of a claw. At least, that’s what everyone says.

But it had to be done. The village is on the brink of disaster and their last hope was the dragon god that lived in the mountains. The villagers began to proclaim that this was happening because they forgot to send a sacrifice in recent years. And when the current sacrifice chosen turned out to be one of his younger siblings, Trey had no choice but to volunteer himself.

As he approaches the temple, though, Trey wonders why the place looks like it hasn't been touched in years. Not exactly what you’d expect from a wrathful deity.

Maybe they just don't care about keeping things tidy before eating their next victim?

The inside of the temple is surprisingly cozy, but he doesn't have time to think about it. You, the ancient dragon, make your entrance—or rather, you wander in, yawning, and blink at him like you've just woken up from a really long nap.

“Hey… uh, are you the dragon god?” Trey asks, clutching the bundle of supplies he'd brought along.

You stretch, wings fluttering lazily behind you, before giving him a confused look. "Who else would I be? The village’s lost pet?"

Trey blinks. This is not what he was expecting. He was ready for a quick, brutal end. Maybe some fire and brimstone. Not... this.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “I’m Trey, from the village. They sent me as the sacrifice.”

You squint at him like he's just told you the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard. "Sacrifice? They still do that? I haven’t asked for a sacrifice in… decades. I was actually happy to not have my nap interrupted by scared humans. I was going to help with the crisis anyway."

Now it’s Trey's turn to stare. “You… don’t want the sacrifice?”

"Nope." You shrug, completely nonchalant. "You can go back to the village if you want. Or, if you're looking for a change of scenery, the village on the other side of the mountain is kinda nice."

Trey lets out a small sigh, but it’s not exactly relief. “I… can’t. If I go back, they'll think the offering was rejected. My siblings could suffer for it."

You pause, then nod thoughtfully. "Ah, yeah, human politics." You click your tongue. "I hate when that happens. Well, just so you know, the past sacrifices? Yeah, they all ended up in the village on the other side of the mountain."

Trey’s jaw drops. "Wait… what?"

"Yeah." You nod sagely. "They all thought the same thing—'Oh no, the dragon’s gonna eat me'—but I just sent them over there.”

He blinks at you again, trying to absorb all of this information. "So… you don’t actually…?"

"Eat people?" you finish for him, giving him a strange look. "No. That’s gross. Why would I do that?"

Trey's lips twitch upward. A beat of silence passes before Trey clears his throat again. "Mind if I stay, then? I can cook, clean, and—"

You give him a sideways glance, and your eyes light up. "Wait. You cook?"

"Yeah," Trey says, still trying to grasp that he’s negotiating his survival with a dragon.

A slow grin spreads across your face. "Well then, you’re hired. Welcome to dragon duty."

Trey’s not sure whether to laugh or cry at how anticlimactic this has all turned out. He’d prepared himself for noble sacrifice, but instead, he’s somehow signed up for dragon housekeeping duty. With a deep breath, he puts on a smile. "So, uh, what do you want for dinner?"

From that moment on, life with you is… surprisingly comfortable. Trey, ever practical, makes himself useful.

He handles things with the same calm practicality he’d use back in the village, except now, there’s a giant, sometimes snarky dragon looming over him as he goes about his tasks.

He spends his days cooking, tending to the temple’s neglected gardens, and even baking pastries—though you still don’t believe him when he says there’s no oyster sauce in his sweets.

“You’re pulling my tail,” you mutter, eyeing the perfectly innocent-looking cake Trey’s set out in front of you. “I can taste something weird in it.”

Trey just smiles. “Oyster sauce. Definitely.”

You huff, giving up on trying to figure him out, and focus on enjoying your meals and new company instead.

One evening, after a particularly good dinner (with no discernible oyster flavor, much to your disappointment), you glance at Trey lounging by the fireplace. He's been here for a while now, and you find that you're quite enjoying his company. In fact, you're enjoying it a little too much.

"So, you’re not as terrifying as the stories make you out to be," Trey comments one day, setting down a plate of food.

You snort, flipping lazily on your side. "Thanks, I guess. Humans are always so dramatic."

"And the drought?" Trey asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Taken care of," you reply with a smug smile. "Already brought in the rains.”

He nods and settles down next to you, holding a book from the library that you never bothered to visit.

Well, it's now or never. “So,” you begin, almost casually, “I’ve decided.”

“Decided what?” Trey looks up from the book he’s reading.

“That you’ll be my mate.”

He nearly drops the book. “Your... what?”

“My mate.” You stretch your wings, trying to look as imposing as possible—though you’re pretty sure Trey isn’t intimidated by you anymore. “You’re the first human who actually stuck around. And you can cook. That’s mate material.”

Trey is, understandably, at a loss for words. “…You’re serious?”

“Completely.” You flash him that grin again, all teeth and playful confidence. “Unless you’ve got a better offer somewhere else?”

Trey pinches the bridge of his nose, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “No, I think I’ll stick around.”

And just like that, Trey Clover—the supposed human sacrifice—finds himself the mate of a centuries-old dragon. Maybe this wasn’t the fate he expected, but all things considered… it could be worse.

At least the dragon likes his cooking.

Masterlist

[nattheother]

over the counter and back ✧ jww

tags fluff, meet cute, izakaya!au / midnight diner!au, slight misunderstanding, few swear words, self indulgence (surprising), love me a sopping wet pathetic yn

wc 2.7k words

note that men’s nonno izakaya shoot with dk… yeah... *faints* the hirotaka allegations aint helping either [pic cr. jwwfile on twt]

note i was gonna put an alcohol on the tags but its an izakaya au, u know what ur getting into so :3

crossposted to AO3

—

It wasn’t the weekdays or the rush hour, it’s just the izakaya usually is not that packed. Only two couples on the tables and a woman tonight, who seemed to get off work quite late, sitting at the bar area, seemingly laid back on her phone over her unfinished beer. Old jazzy songs from your boss’ playlist softly filled the bar, warming up the mood.

Your head chef, well, your boss, Kouji, just bid you a farewell. The izakaya just opened about two hours ago this evening, but he had to clock early for his daughter in labour. She usually works part-time here alongside you until about a month ago, which is why you tried to fill her shift until she comes back. Not that you mind.

You wished him good luck before he tackled you into a light hug, resulting in a small “oof!” out of you.

Honestly, handling the diner on a slow day alone doesn’t really worry you. It’s always just the three or two of you. Kouji said the neighborhood was particularly safe, “also it’s a small bar afterall,” he adds.

As you came back from the kitchen after finishing the woman’s check, a new customer came in behind the bar island this time. Young man probably what describes him more. Looks about around his mid 20s, pretty thick rimmed glasses. You’re not sure if it’s his shoulder who’s wide or his button-ups were just oversized, but does he look lean. 

“Welcome! Anything for your order tonight?”

He sits on the barstool at the centre by himself. He adjusts his glasses as he glances around unsure, “yeah, um… just gyudon and draft beer, please,”

You walked around getting the tall glass to pour one from the beer machine. “Sorry, can I ask something?” he promptly starts.

”Yeah?”

”Where is Kouji-san?”

Looking up from the filled glass, you serve the beer on the counter, “Sensei? His daughter’s in labour tonight. I’m in charge for tonight,”

“Only you?” you smiled at his question and nodded, “‘Seems you know Sensei. You’re a regular?”

He took off his watch and chuckled, “Sort of? I do stop by pretty frequently but I’ve kinda never seen you,” he reasoned as he folded up his sleeves.

You laughed softly in the middle of wiping off the beer faucet, pointing to the back with your thumb, “I’m usually in the kitchen.” You put the rag into your apron, “So ring the bell or call up if you need anything.”

You felt the banter was enough as you turned your heels back to the kitchen because you had to make his gyudon, “Wait,” but his calling stopped you in your step. You turned around to him taking a sip of his beer.

“I haven’t gotten your name.”

“If it isn’t Wonwoo!”

Who?

Kouji’s whoop was muffled behind the kitchen curtain. You tried to calmly finish plating up the dish for a current customer so you can quickly move on to this acquaintance of Kouji. Putting his order is for later, so you swiftly deliver the tray full of bowls to the also full table at the back first.

You came back with another tray of empty dishes as you can finally see your next customer.

Oh, right… I forgot to ask his name.

He smiled at you as you confidently welcomed him, mirroring his smile.

In the middle of putting away the dirty dishes, Kouji came into the kitchen with a question, “Wonwoo said he knows you? You’ve never told me!”

You looked back at him in a slight surprise and a chuckle, “Not really, actually, we met around last week I think? You clocked off early.”

What you remembered from that day was after Wonwoo asked your name, customers piling up in a short time right after you served his food. That resulted in you spending most of your time in the kitchen and finished his check a little quickly because the other was also queuing behind him.

“Go take his order. A group just came in just now and I’m taking theirs,” Kouji ordered.

“What?? Why not you earlier, Sensei?” you whined.

After your half-playful complaint of not taking his order, you wipe off your hand dry and sighed on your way out.

“Another draft beer?”

You guessed as you walked up to him. He nodded, “And a mapo tofu, do you have that?” You took out your notes to write down his orders, “I’ll make sure and prepare that for you.

Anything else?”

Days after that, Wonwoo stopped by around eight to nine, assumingly whenever he had overtime. It’s always the same order. One (or more) glass of draft beer and any bowl dishes, that mapo tofu most of the time.

There was also the time where he came in at almost eleven. He usually never shows any signs of fatigue or weariness on his face but you can see the dim in his eyes. You tried to not approach him that much, spending more of your time checking up the kitchen before touching the baton to Kouji for the night.

You rang up his check right before you clock out. He looked a bit more refreshed after his meal, cheeks slightly flushed after a few refills of beer.

“Please walk safe home,” you gave back his card to the small tray alongside the bill.

Not expecting your non-customer service-way farewell, he stared at you for a few seconds before nodding his head, “you too.”

You swear in every language you can think of. Your heart squeezed. Wonwoo was starting to grow in your heart. It’s really nice to see him in the izakaya for a few days a week after that. You never sort of believed in any of those “at first sight” moments, if it works, good for them. While it did feel slightly heavy on your feet anytime you had to walk back to the kitchen instead of seeing him and talk to him, you had to put your mind in place. Focus. 

It could be because he’s one of your first regulars and, cough, is good looking, but you don’t know his background. Who are his friends and family and why does he always come in alone? You’re not even sure if it’s a crush or that you just found comfort with a customer. Either way, workplace is still a workplace and he is your client. This izakaya is your only rendezvous to him.

That is when Wonwoo ordered two glasses of beer. You tried your best not to halt when you stepped out of the kitchen and saw a young woman around his age beside him. You didn’t, and served him his usual bowl of rice. Gyudon this time, and mapo tofu for her.

You need to stop looking like a stalker, hiding behind the kitchen curtain. This is the second time he had brought her to this izakaya. You need to stop before someone accuses you as a total creep as you compare their interaction a few days ago with today. Almost the same. From outside it looked like they were having a quite serious and private discussion, noting down stuff on paper and their phone alternatively. As if someone’s life was actually on the line. You are also lucky Kouji will come later at night, because he might also accuse you as a total creepy stalker.

You try only focusing on attending customers. It’s almost the weekend and customers start piling up before you realize Wonwoo was already sitting alone. You try to not overthink why he didn’t take her home himself and let her go home by herself.

You walk up to the bar to check the beer dispenser. You can feel his eyes boring at you, slightly dim again like it was a couple weeks ago, and two empty glasses of beer.

“Need a refill?” you carefully ask, walking up to him.

“I’m good.” he slightly smiles before asking for his check.

You kept your sweet encouragement to yourself as you don’t want to force and assume anything towards him. He left the change and gave you a tip.

“Wonwoo?”

It was nearing autumn. Though the sun was already setting at five, the bar still opens at the same time. The rain pours hard, covering any sign of the sun setting with gloom. But nothing could’ve prepared you other than the six feet tall man crouching under the roof in front of the closed bar you’re working at, shading himself from the rain. You grip your umbrella tighter when he looks up to your call.

He calls your name in recognition as he stands up.

The rain poured harder above the roof of the izakaya when you hand Wonwoo the warm coffee on the bar. He’s in the middle of taking off his damp jacket when he looks up to you at the sight of the cup.

“On the house,”

“Thank you.”

You busy yourself behind the bar, checking and tidying stuff up under the bar as Wonwoo sips on his coffee. You peek glances over him. He doesn’t look as tired as the last time you saw him. But if your over-analysis and timeline matched, his reasoning behind crouching like a pathetic man in front of your workplace must have something to do with it.

“Is it okay if I ask you what’s wrong?”

Your sudden approach jolts him a little. He chuckles, “it’s fine,” you wait for his pause.

“I can say it’s family matters. Something came up and we had to figure it out somehow, a little stressful I might say,” you hum understanding.

“Did you not have work today? You usually come later. It’s not even six yet,”

He shakes his head, “No, I just finished super early. My seniors are having dinner, too, so,”

“Not going?”

“Not really my thing. Only works when I was new,”

He takes a sip of his coffee again. You space out for a moment not knowing what to respond. You were never the best at comforting someone. For as long as you’ve been friends with your best friends, you’ve always listened. Maybe give them some hugs and pats on the head, words of “I’m here” and “You’re not on your own” repeatedly said, affirming.

You felt sort of bad and truly embarrassed at how you acted behind him the past weeks, sort of suspecting his love life, getting (you admit) jealous at some random woman you don’t know and didn’t even try to know. Maybe what you thought a few weeks ago was right. Maybe you do have a huge cru–

“Yes, Wonwoo?” your ribbons of thoughts were snipped by Wonwoo calling your name.

“You’re usually bright, is something wrong?”

Confused by his question, you look around unsure. Guests usually come around an hour after opening, and you never wished someone to come in right now so bad through your whole career.

“M-maybe? I don’t know, sorry,”

Wonwoo was in the middle of wiping his glasses with the paw of his sleeves. He puts them back on.

“It’s usually me who’s quiet between us,” he adjusts them to the bridge of his nose, looking up at you from his seat, smiling.

Between us? He’s not making this any better. You scratch the back of your neck, not planning to come up with any reply or answer. You avert your gaze to the window, trying to avoid his eyes. Your wish of customers barging in is washed away by the rain—not slowing down any minute apparently.

“I just thought something came up and you had to like,” you chuckle at your assumption, “get off early or, run away or some sort,”

Wonwoo was still sipping his coffee. Not sensing his answer in any minute, you finish your prior thought with your remaining breath, “sort of heartbroken-looking.”

You organize the shot bottle on the under bar, again trying to distract yourself from the fact that he's now facing you, eyes boring. You didn’t budge and he stared at his coffee.

“I wanna get to know you, Wonwoo,” you finally look at him. Emphasizing on your tone, you don’t want him to feel like you’re just messing around.

“Can I?” you ponder at him, preparing yourself for the worst.

“I don’t know if it's possible. For all the time you came here, the past few weeks, I always get all... gung-ho when cooking, or preparing side dishes and bowls in the back. It’s like I want you to see me doing great like there’s nothing wrong in my mind. You know, "bright" like you said. It’s honestly stupid, fuck…” you breath out the last word.

“And then you came in super late that night, with that… heavy shoulders and countless refills of this damned beer, and then came in with that lady not once but twice, and this… serious tension between the two of you. You know, I just didn’t want to assume but it’s just… I don’t know, it was kinda confu–”

“With who now?”

You instantly pause, knowing full well he has probably catched on. So you sigh, “That… friend around your age. Pretty, slight tan, long hair,” you scratch your forehead in defeat. It’s like your pride just splurts out like a balloon being squished its air out.

You excuse yourself by collecting his empty cup on the top counter to refill it, but a hand halts your steps grabbing onto your arm.

“Don’t give me more, I don’t handle caffeine that well.”

“Just… let me put this back to the kitchen,”

“Later. Sit here.” he orders.

Your heart flinched at the slight octave drop of his already soft voice. Another sigh of loss, you put back the cup. Wonwoo slowly let go of your arm to let you walk around the bar counter.

It’s now a whole new view. Wonwoo is sitting right next to you and you can definitely smell his cologne. Even just one second of eye contact, you couldn’t handle it. How does one’s gaze be so soft and comforting? You dart your eyes and cover them with your hands with elbows on the table.

“Just… let's just finish this. I already feel ridiculous.”

All you can catch with your ears was his soft chuckle and fabric rustling, “you wanna get to know me right?”

You feel his fingers snake around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. Seeing his face up close does not help even one bit, you feel even more like shit of how messy and pathetic you must’ve looked.

“That… “friend”, is my future sister-in-law,” he starts,

Your eyeballs could probably see the back of your head as you whip your head away in another embarrassment, “Ugh, Wonwoo, enough of that,”

“Which is why we were so stressed we had to talk about it on our own. My brother’s marriage is on the line.”

You hear his tone indicating him smiling whilst explaining. To be frank, you kind of already gave up the moment his voice dropped an octave lower. All you can do now is just to sit next to Wonwoo with his thumb drawing circles on your palm. 

“It’s not stupid,” he softly assures, fingertips a little cold from sheltering the rain earlier. But it does feel so to you. Stupid crush at the ripe age of your 20s. Great. 

“So can I get to know you then?”

You look up at him, desperate for his answer and decision.

“Only if I get to know you, too. Here,”

He taps his finger to the table, hand still not letting go of yours. You make sure once more, “like right here?”

He nods, “until today’s first customer.”

You’re not sure if the smile on your lips is for him or just out of embarrassment, “Well technically you are one,” you chuckle, “at least let me put this back to the kitchen.”

Well, now that your stupid crush issue is all clear, you can finally find the courage to look at his face one more time, no meddling. All you can focus on was the soft and playful beam on his eyes behind that thick specs.

“Tell Kouji-san you got a date tonight.”

[18:06] sensei [18:06] i might have to clock off early

[18:12] Oh sure, something’s up?

[18:13] yeah umm [18:13] i just booked myself a date

[18:14] Oooh [18:14] Hahaha [18:14] About time that wonwoo

[18:14] ??? [18:14] sensei???

—

[m.list]

im bout to make a “try not writing scenario about another meet cute at 3 am” challenge (already failed)

[wundrousarts]

I’m also curious about people’s thoughts on this. I too am suffering from the American release date being practically two months after the initial release. While I don’t want to see spoilers I know from experience from Hollowpox that I will be peeking at the Silverborn channel in the discord like this 🫣🫣🫣 anyways LOL.

I made a private “Silverborn Spoilers” community with the new feature (that I don’t understand at all) because I was thinking that could be a good way try and keep stuff contained, because just relying on muting tags isn’t always reliable….. and because I am always tempted to click on the hidden posts 😅. The only issue though is that you can’t reblog from communities nor can you make a private one public? But Silverborn is a year away, so maybe it would change by then. 🤷

For context, this is a Nevermoor fandom poll on whether or not you're ok with spoilers from people in the fandom who have read Silverborn once it comes out. Please put your thoughts down below, I'd love to hear them!

My thoughts under the cut:

Personally, I made this poll because I'm a bit conflicted over whether or not I want to see spoilers before I read Silverborn, once it comes out (I live in the US, so I definitely won't get it first). On one hand, I'd love to have an unspoiled (besides snippets and things) read of Silverborn, so I can experience all of the twists firsthand. But on the other hand, I also want to experience all of the fanart, fanfics, analyses, and commentaries in real time, I don't want to miss anything!

Again, please reblog and share your thoughts!